


Fake Knives and Femme Fatales

by romanticalgirl



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 08:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28468470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: One day Marta gets a book in the mail.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera & Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 11
Kudos: 75





	Fake Knives and Femme Fatales

The book arrives in the mail at the house, not at the PO Box Marta set up even before all the law suits had been settled. It’s in a plain brown wrapper with a machine printed address label and no note. She thinks about calling Blanc, because somehow she knows who it’s from, but it seems silly. It’s no threat.

It is, not surprisingly, a mystery.

Since his death, Marta’s read some of Harlan’s books and found she doesn’t like them. They’re interesting and compelling, but they’re also convoluted – relying on twists and turns at the very end to solve the mysteries. They remind her of Arthur Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes where too often the answer is in what didn’t happen – the dog didn’t bark.

She’s found, in real life, the answer comes down to the dogs actually barking.

She did enjoy some of his earlier ones, where they were suspense more than graphic descriptions, but as the market changed, so did Harlan’s writing.

She sits in one of the large, comfortable chairs she bought to replace Harlan's knife chair that she hid in one of the rooms no one ever uses. It’s too much of a reminder of the day she could have died, too much of a reminder of how stupid she was, too much of a reminder of letting herself want something that was far out of her reach.

The author’s name is not one she recognizes, but that doesn’t surprise her. Nor does the dedication - _To fake knives and femme fatales_. It’s the last thing anyone would accuse her of, though she did bring about his downfall, however unwittingly. For a moment she pictures herself like Veronica Lake or Barbara Stanwyck, dressed in black with stocking seams and a sob story. She laughs softly as she looks down at her robe, pajamas, and slippers.

She starts reading and she’s surprised, when she looks up, that three hours have passed and she’s over half-way through the novel. The story is good, twists and turns plausible, but the clues are there. She thinks she has it solved, but there are also trails that could lead other places. What could be red herrings and MacGuffins or could be the answers.

She’d expected it to be a retelling of their story, but instead it’s something different. Something she could imagine Harlan writing when he first started his career. Ransom writes like he talks, convincing and smart, alluring. His characters could be telling the truth or telling people what they want to hear. His detective is sharp and witty. Her stomach growls and she goes to fix herself something to eat, settling back in the chair with a sandwich a short while later to pick up the book again.

It’s winter, so it’s just started getting dark when she finishes, closing the book with a satisfying thunk. She’d guessed wrong, and then right, and then wrong again, and in the end, she’d followed the clues the detective laid out and before the final reveal, she guessed the murderer.

The dogs had barked.

Since she inherited Harlan’s fortune, most of what Marta’s written has been checks. All of the family gets a monthly stipend save Linda who had refused. Linda was just as sharp and cruel and dismissive of Marta, but she also had pride. She’s the only one who hadn’t wished harm on her father, the only one he hadn’t hurt and humiliated. Marta wouldn’t be surprised if she and Ransom were the only ones Harlan had actually loved.

Marta carries the book over to her desk and pulls out a sheet of paper. It’s one of the ones with Harlan’s letterhead embossed on it, and she supposes it’s fitting.

_Should I review it on goodreads?_

She doesn’t sign it, and she sends it to her lawyer with a request to send it to the minimum-security facility – she’s not sure it can even be called a prison – she knows Ransom has been sentenced to. She doesn’t hear anything back.

She reads the book three times.

**

Harlan’s mother still lives at the house. She has her own hallway and she rarely ventures far from it. They had kept someone on to make her meals, though she eats like a bird except when it comes to chocolate. It may not be the best thing for her, but Marta makes sure she stays supplied with sweets. They don’t talk, rarely see each other.

Marta wonders sometimes if she blames Marta for Ransom being gone.

Marta leaves the book for her with a batch of truffles from a local store. The book disappears for a week, and then it shows up again. There’s a note on top of it, written with a shaky hand.

_That’s Ransom_

Marta wonders if the note assumes Marta doesn’t know, if it’s a note of pride, or if it was a reminder to herself. She doesn’t think it matters.

**

The book is a best seller. Blanc leaves a message, asking if she’s read it.

She doesn’t call him back.

She doesn’t leave a review.

**

A little over a year later another package shows up. It’s different than the last, but wrapped and addressed the same. Inside is a preview copy, paperbound rather than hard cover. Marta goes to the same chair and wraps a blanket around her, even though it’s edging into spring.

_To my harshest critic_

The book is good. Slightly more polished than the last, but it feels the same. After she’d read Ransom’s novel, she’d gone back to Harlan’s early stories. He’d apprenticed with Harlan once, but the servant had become the master.

Ransom’s a far better writer.

There’s mystery and suspense, something slightly darker but laced with humor. She’s not sure how the combination and juxtaposition work, but it does. She finds herself caught up in the story, tense one moment and laughing the next.

She takes even less time to finish this one.

**

She’s not sure how to respond this time. He obviously got her previous note, but she’s not sure what to say. She’s thought about it for days, and nothing comes to her. They need to be the right words, but it’s clear that words are Harlan and Ransom’s forte, not hers.

Finally she sends a note with five stars on it, only three of them colored in. It’s not an honest review. The book deserves at least four, but he wouldn’t believe her if she sent him that.

**

Three months later she gets another package, thinner than the previous two. She heads to the same chair before she opens it, but when she does, she doesn’t immediately start reading. It’s a young adult book with a different author’s name.

It’s about a Latinx young woman who wants to be a nurse, but ends up a teenage detective. She’s nothing like Nancy Drew, and everything like Marta. He even gets her nationality right. She’s fun and funny and has a host of friends, ridiculous characters that are, in part, clearly based on his family, on Blanc. He’s missing from the story altogether.

It’s the only thing that keeps her from really enjoying it.

**

It’s five years, seven adult novels, and twelve of the teen novels when the two authors get connected. Another adult novel - _Number three in the series!_ \- before it’s discovered exactly who’s been writing the books.

There’s a huge media blitz but, surprisingly, Ransom doesn’t respond or milk it for attention. The rest of the family seems to – Walt telling anyone who will listen that Ransom’s books never would get published if he had a say in the business still, Joanie saying she always knew Ransom’s talent, Richard insisting that the money should go to paying back all the money they spent on legal fees.

Linda doesn’t say anything, which makes Marta wonder if she’s known all along.

“How long have you known?”

Marta smiles at Blanc’s distinctive voice. “Known?”

“Now, don’t you play with me,” Blanc’s voice is laced with humor. “Dumb’s not a good look on you.”

“Since the first book. Someone sent me a copy.”

“Someone, hmm?”

“There was no name, so I don’t know who it could have been. Publishing agency, no doubt. His agent. I’m sure they don’t let him send packages from where he’s locked up.”

“Probably not. They’re all dedicated to you.”

“I know.”

“You worried that when he gets out he’s going to come for you?”

“No.”

“You might want to be.” She hears the scratch of a match and the puffs of breath as he lights his cigar. She can almost smell the bitter smoke. “He did try to stab you.”

“Coming after me wouldn’t get him anything, and I doubt he’d do something if there’s no benefit to him.”

“There was no benefit in trying to stab you.”

“He was angry. Probably because I threw up on him.” She hasn’t thrown up in a while. She hasn’t had the need to lie. “Besides, he knew it was over, knew he’d confessed. What’s another murder?”

“Quite a lot actually.” He blows out a breath, and Marta imagines the air around him is blue and gray with smoke. “And don’t try to tell me he knew the knife was fake. I saw his face when it didn’t work.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

“But.”

“But.” Marta nods even though he can’t see her. “I can take care of myself.”

“He’s up for parole in a year.”

“I know. It’s all they’ve talked about in the papers. I’m not afraid of him. I never have been really.”

“All right. But you should remember he’s not afraid of you either.”

“Really? I don’t know. I think he might be.”

**

The newest book shows up in a package larger than any of the others. She unwraps it carefully, opening the first of the three white binders. She frowns as she looks at the typed words, the spaced lines.

It’s the original manuscript, or at least a copy of it. She eases it from the packaging and sets the brown paper aside. There’s a title page - _Knives Out_ \- and she turns the page. There’s another dedication, this time written in what she knows to be Ransom’s own handwriting.

_Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we’d gotten away with it?_

She frowns again, already turning to the next page. It’s more difficult to read the story in the binders, but once she starts, she can’t put it down.

The names are different, but it’s his story. Their story.

He gives the police their due, though Blanc is something of a caricature. Of course, she’s not sure that that isn’t the truth anyway. She wonders how there are things he knows, wonders if they’re things she told him. The tape and the magnet, the footprints in the mud, the broken lattice. The deep gash in Harlan’s throat. How cruel that, in trying to save her, he forced her to watch him die, blood splattering and spilling everywhere.

There’s the fire and the ridiculous car chase, the letter, the lab tests. There’s Fran who hated Ransom more than anything. It’s strange reading about her, because for the first time, Marta wonders why Ransom got the dosage of the drug wrong. Given the time difference between when he injected her and when Marta arrived, Fran should have been dead.

Because if Marta had told the truth and Ransom had settled for splitting the inheritance with her, he wouldn’t have gone to jail. If Ransom had given Fran an immediately fatal dose, no one would have been the wiser. If Ransom had been less self-assured, less cocky and hadn’t hired Blanc.

Losing herself in the words, Marta allows herself to wonder for the first time if Ransom had been the mystery rather than the solution all along.

**

She’s not sure how much time has passed by the time she finishes reading. The story ends differently, though not by much. Blanc still solves the case, bumbling his way to the culprit like Cousteau or Columbo. Fran still dies, Ransom still tries to stab her and fails. He gets taken away in cuffs, giving Marta one last look over his shoulder.

It’s cocksure and cruel all at once, and it hardens the heroine’s resolve to dismiss the rest of the family, to make them fend for themselves. The only person who makes it out with any measure of success is Linda’s character, and Marta wonders if Ransom is like Harlan in more ways than she’d previously thought.

The book ends with Ransom’s character in jail, sitting at a table in the recreation room playing Go against himself.

But at least he’s winning.

**

There’s a white bus outside the gates. Marta parks behind it. His car has been parked at the house since his arrest. No one seemed to think to collect it. She’d eventually driven it into the garage and covered it, so it’s gathered metaphorical dust for ten years. It seems only fitting that, since she saved him with it, she could do something similar.

She’s leaning against the passenger side door when several men walk out past two guards and through the open gate. They’re all dressed in ill-fitting white t-shirts and jeans. They all head for the bus except for the one at the back of the group. He stops and smiles, and Marta would know him anywhere, even with his hair longer than she’s ever seen it, and a honey-gold beard.

He walks over to her, stopping a couple of feet away. She holds out a hardcover book. He takes it, glances at the cover, and smiles.

“Can I get your autograph?”

“They wouldn’t let me have a pen in there.” She takes a Sharpie out of her sweater pocket and hands it to him. “Nothing sharp. Smart move.” The shining knife chair catches the light as he opens the cover. “Who should I make this out to?”

“Marta.”

“All right. To Marta, my biggest fan.” He scribbles a signature and, when he turns the book toward her, he’s signed it with his real name. “So, I appreciate the welcome committee, but I don’t know exactly why you’re here.”

The bus’s engine turns over, there’s a puff of smoke from the exhaust, and it starts to pull away. Marta shrugs. “Thought you might need a ride.”

“Looks like it’s either that or walk.” He holds out his hands for the keys. “Don’t suppose you’ll let me drive?”

“Surely your license has expired.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

She smiles and tosses him the keys. He reaches behind her and opens the passenger door for her, shutting it once she’s inside. He sinks down into the driver’s seat and runs both hands over the steering wheel.

“Hello, baby girl.”

“You talk to your car?”

“Wouldn’t want her to think I didn’t miss her.” He turns and grins at Marta. He looks older, more mature. He’s slightly bulkier. He looks like a man instead of a spoiled boy. “So. Where to?”

“Home.”

“Afraid I don’t have one of those anymore.”

“My home. Harlan’s home. Your, what did you call it? Ancestral home?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m an asshole. That’s no surprise.” He’s still grinning, but he turns his gaze back to the road. She sets her phone GPS to guide them to where he’s familiar, since they have quite a ways to go.

After a half hour of silence, she looks over to see that he’s frowning. “What?”

“Why’d you really drive all this way?”

“Like you said, I’m your biggest fan.”

“I tried to kill you,” he reminds her.

She nods and pats his hand where it rests on the gearshift. “I know.”

**

“Ransom? Is that you?”

“Nana?” Ransom stops in the doorway, frozen until he looks over at Marta and then back at his grandmother. “How are you even alive?”

“I think it’s the chocolate,” Marta tells him.

Ransom finally walks inside the house and shuts the door before moving over to his grandmother. “Nana?”

She reaches up and pats his cheek. “You’re a good boy, Ransom.”

“I don’t think that’s true, Nana.” He reaches up and acts like he’s going to brush her thin hair back, but doesn’t actually touch her. “How are you doing?”

“My son is dead.” Marta swallows hard as she watches the two of them. Ransom looks like he doesn’t know how to react, and Mrs. Thrombey is smiling. Marta doesn’t think she’s ever seen her smile. “But you’re all right now.”

“Yeah. I’m okay, Nana.” He finally settles his hand on her shoulder and squeezes. Without saying anything else, she turns and walks away, back toward her wing of the house. “Seriously, how is she alive?”

“Well, if I know the Thrombey family, I’d say stubbornness.” She nods toward Harlan’s study. “Do you want a drink?”

“Yeah. Yes. Please.” The words sound foreign from him. It might be because she doesn’t think she’s ever heard him say them.

She goes to the bar, still well stocked from when Harlan was alive. Fran used to complain about his drink – only the most expensive whiskey for the little shit – so Marta knows exactly what to pour. He thanks her when she hands it to him. They both take seats and Ransom takes a sip from his glass, closing his eyes. Savoring it.

“When do I find out what I’m doing here?” He asks after his second sip.

“What do you mean?”

“Most people don’t invite their would-be murderers into their home. So there has to be some angle you’re playing.”

She’s not sure, to be why she’s done it, if she’s honest with herself. “Why did you send me the books?”

“Thought you might like them.”

“I don’t think that’s why, but maybe that’s the wrong question.” She’s watching him closely, and he’s too good at guarding his expression. He’s probably been too good at it since birth. “Why did you dedicate them to me? Why did you write them about me?”

“You’re my nemesis. Who else would I write for and about?” He shrugs and she knows he’s not telling the truth, but she thinks she’s figured out the answer anyway.

“What would we have done, do you think?” She looks at him seriously. “If we’d gotten away with it?”

“Probably driven each other crazy until you paid me to go away.” He says with a shrug, his tone flippant. “Either that or stay together out of pure spite.”

“I don’t know that I’m capable of sustaining pure spite.”

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t be because we liked each other.”

“No. Of course not.” She stands up and nods toward the main staircase. “You want to go upstairs? We can play a game of Go.”

“I’m really good." He looks at her and raises both eyebrows. He's looking at her curiously, like he's trying to figure her out. "I used to beat my grandfather.”

:I know." Marta reaches out without thinking and takes Ransom’s free hand. “So did I.”


End file.
